#throwing away a high paid career to work for charities and do something for people that means something to them

[asynca]

#absolutely the realization that changed my life #doing the things that scared me #like moving overseas alone and arriving in my new home with just a single suitcase #throwing away a high paid career to work for charities and do something for people that means something to them #falling in love then moving in with then marrying someone from across the world #and finally having children despite my worries about my capacity to be a mentally healthy parent #all these things have made me so happy #I am so happy #because I did everything I was terrified of

[evien-stark]

✧I Need You✧  Chapter 200

The last Sunday of the month had invited all the charitable rich to another gaudy event. Having your picture taken as you entered was really the only price worth paying. Six digit donations were nothing to people with deep pockets. They wanted adoration. Acknowledgment of their good deeds for humanity. Rich people were the worst. And you and Tony were as rich as they came. So you would know. 

And one thing you certainly knew was how much you absolutely hated these events. The fake smiles, the cheesy laughter, the shows for cameras lined outside an obvious event carpet. Paid paparazzi and news outlets parked every inch of the way. Walking the generous mile (at least it definitely felt that way) into the event where, once safely inside away from all the cameras and microphones, the pretending would stop. They’d preen and dote upon one another and forget the reason for even being there- if they even knew which charity they’d made an appearance for at all. Usually just personal assistants writing out the RSVPs and picking outfits, calling cars, and writing checks. 

These people didn’t care about anyone but themselves. ...but money was money. 

And money they wouldn’t even notice was gone going to help people that were in definite need was worth something, right? It was worth slugging through these events multiple times a year. It was just rude to send money and not show. No- you were part of the show. So you had to go. Much as you were too busy and too uninterested in being anywhere near this social circle the rich and famous had crafted for themselves. Safe and familiar away from the less fortunate that they were celebrating- 

“You alright, honey?” Tony had probably noticed your mean-mugging and glassy eyed stare from across the room as you looked at yourself in the vanity mirror. 

That was signal enough that all the fussing about was over. Both hairdresser and makeup artist taking their cue to put on the finishing touches and scurry away. “I’m just tired.” Feeling safe to say this once the two of you were alone in the bedroom again. This was your answer more often these days, which was probably not a great thing. 

Standing up, you discarded your robe and went to unzip your overly ritzy dress from its garment bag. While Tony was still half turned away getting himself dressed, you stepped into it. A gorgeous entirely too-expensive dress, as always for something like this. It was black with champagne-gold colored details. A snugly fitted mermaid line with a slightly large train at the bottom. The arms and extremely deep v-line were all sheer mesh, giving the illusion of bareness, gold leaflet details spreading across your collar bones, lining the cups of the dress and the V shape, down over your hips, some across your arms, and many lining the bottom. Perfectly matched, of course, with Tony’s black and exact same champagne-gold tux. Black pants and suit jacket, black button up with a gold waistcoat, pocket square, and bow tie. One he was currently fumbling with. Or pretending to. As he always did. You went to his aid (as you always did), reaching up to tie the fabric to expert perfection. His smile was grateful and warm. “What would I do without you?” 

“I shudder to think.” Teasing him a little before you turned opposite him, gently guiding your expensively-done hair forward over your shoulder. “Would you mind?”

The tips of his fingers were warm and soft as he glided them down the length of your exposed back. Turned away, you didn’t mind the flutter of your eyes as they closed. But hiding one expression from him didn’t help- as you breathed out softly, probably in that overly telling way. You could hear his smirk without even having to look at him. “Zipper’s already down. I’m sure you could get out of the rest of it without my help, but… since you asked…” 

He went so far as to drift his hands back up and slip them underneath the shoulders of your dress, like he actually might take it off you. You turned your head back and were too amused to make the sentiment as serious as you would have liked. “Tony, stop.” 

“Should I?” His brow arched in that high delicate line. “You don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go…” So why not stay here? A question left unasked. Not that it mattered. You just ended up shaking your head. “Well, we have to. It’ll be less trouble that way.” If you paid your charitable entrance fee and then didn’t show, somebody would make a stink about it come tomorrow. And that was just more headache than you needed. 

“You say that- and yet-” Protesting, even as he finally acquiesced, hands dropping to pull your zipper up all the way. Practically sealing you into your dress. Maybe locked was the better word. 

“Let’s not tempt fate.” All you had to do was get in, take pictures, pretend to be happy talking to any number of people who would bother you that night, maybe drink a glass of wine, have a dance, and then leave. How much trouble could happen between all that? 

As you laid your hand on his chest, he put his over yours, just holding you there for a second. His smile then was brief. “You’re right.” 

But it was already too late for that. 

                                                               ---

This being the first public event the two of you had attended since letting everyone in on the engagement, Tony seemed to be hamming it up more than usual. Sure, he was a shutterbug and seemed to enjoy posing for cameras (thumbs up, peace signs, grand gesturing as was his way), he was now involving you. And no doubt he’d be looking over the photos that came out of this event in the morning. 

He seemed to switch his handedness- usually he’d be throwing up signs with his right, as came natural to him, but now he made every move with his left. Displaying his ring proudly. Making it obvious and clear- look, we’re engaged, this is going to be my wife, I get to be her husband. To say that he was glowing would be putting it mildly. His smiles were more genuine than they’d ever be for something like this. 

Because he had you at his side. And he was showing off. While the two of you walked down the outside aisle to the event, he had an arm around your waist. And when you stopped to pose for the cameras, he’d take your hand in his and press a kiss to the back. Yes. Even calling it showing off was putting it mildly. Tony Stark was strutting as a new-fiance. And maybe that made all of this worth it. 

But letting your guard down for even a second or believing that the evening was going your way invited trouble. Trouble in the form of a woman in an all white dress storming her way to you. In contrast to your sharp and gorgeous lines she was wearing a billowy frock that seemed a little hard to move around in. You guessed she was going for some angelic vibe. 

The second Joy Meachum stopped- not in front of you, but at your side, purposefully so the cameras and press could hear and see the both of you clearly, you held a hand up to her. “Don’t do this here.” Whatever she was planning, whatever she wanted to say, you wanted no part of it. But especially not in front of the hungry press. 

Tony’s hand squeezed yours but he maintained a calm and watchful air. Joy just grinned. “Why not? They’ll eat this up. It’s good for business.” 

“Not yours, certainly.” Trying to scare her away with a steely-eyed stare. “And unlike you, I’m not a dancing circus monkey. I don’t take pride in putting on a show just for press points.” 

This incensed her quite clearly, but underneath that there was a certain wave of fear. Hm. So Joy Meachum was frightened of you. As she should be. But putting on a brave face. “I just wanted to say that I think it’s extremely nasty, what you’re doing. Women like us should prop each other up. There are so few of us in the business. Attacking me-” 

“I made a simple statement about the affairs of your business. Nothing I said was untrue, either, by the way. And if it were, you’d have already tried to slap me with a lawsuit. Grandstanding will not pull you out of this hole you’ve put yourself in.” You remained expertly calm, not giving in to this theater she was putting on. 

But she just couldn’t help herself. “I know you’re helping the guy going around pretending to be Danny Rand. I think it’s tasteless and some sort of power play for-”

“Please. If I wanted Rand Enterprises I’d have it tomorrow. You’re lucky I don’t want to be associated with the kind of overpriced drugs you sell.” Okay. You were giving in just a little. But she wanted a fight. “Go away now, you’re making a fool out of yourself.” 

Her hands went tight into little fists at her side. “You have no idea what I’ve been through to bring this company where it is. I was born into this. I belong here. You just slept your way up.” 

The roll of your eyes probably wasn’t dramatic enough. Tony seemed like he had a mind about him to say something but you finally gave him a return squeeze to keep him at bay. You could and would handle this yourself. “You can’t preach to me the merits of friendly business feminism in one breath and then in the very next call me a slut- but- let’s pretend for a second that that’s even true. It at least goes to show how much more work I put into my career than you did with yours. You don’t get credit for falling out of your mother onto a pile of money.” Shock was a bold color on her, and a dozen non-starters escaped from her mouth as she grasped for something to say to that. Instead of letting her attempt to defend herself you finished with, “What matters is what you do with that after the fact, and so far I have seen nothing to indicate you have anything worth being proud of.” With that you gave Tony a little tug and he was quick to your side as the two of you turned. But he did offer her a little wave. “Nice seeing you, Joy.” 

The two of you played completely unaffected. Her creepy brother came to her aide, something you saw just out of the corner of your eye, as you and Tony were making your way- finally- to the entrance. He couldn’t help one last hammy action, leaning in to press a dashing kiss to your cheek with a wide smile. You couldn’t help yourself, either, turning the other way to catch him next, raising your left hand to cup his cheek, as you held him there in a brief but full kiss. He found something funny; you knew exactly what. And, as he pulled away, you let him know. “I warned you I’d put her in her place if she tried anything.” 

His chuckles seemed to go straight through you. “Yeah. Someone should’ve warned her.” 

                                                              ---

A crowd of asskissers was immediately imminent as soon as you two made your way inside. It was exactly why Tony pressed another kiss to your hand and then let go. “Can I buy you a drink?” You smiled in an amused and fond way. “Now, you wouldn’t be trying to abandon me so that you don’t have to talk to anybody, would you?” He made such a face of hurt. “I would never.” But as the footsteps drew closer… “I’ll call you over from the bar. Then you can escape, too. It’s a good plan.” 

Leaning up on tiptoe you pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. “Just a glass of wine, please.” 

The usual hemming and hawing came all around you as Tony made a quick exit to the back of the room. For a change, the usual familiars that pretended to care about your life weren’t asking about the next social event they could catch you at- now they were asking for much more intimate details. What is your ring made out of? How much was it worth? When’s the wedding? Where is the wedding? Who will be designing your dress? Do you have an event coordinator yet? Wedding planner? Menu? Bar? It all gave you a headache. All these questions were detached. Completely impersonal despite how they seemed. They were designed for one reason. To ask how much was being spent. As if that was the only mark of love that either Tony or you could impart to each other. Spending money on one another. 

They didn’t want to know when he proposed- or when you had. They didn’t want to know why you’d chosen the design of his ring or how he’d chosen yours. They didn’t want to know how long you’d been in love or if you’d always known you were going to get married. They didn’t care about your relationship with him. They cared about the wealth and the fame. The extravagance that should have been a Stark Wedding. 

...maybe Tony had been right about eloping all along. Maybe you should have gotten married on that beach in Fiji. The world was waiting for the two of you to say your vows. Not because they cared of their contents but because they all wanted to live vicariously through the both of you. And not for the love or the bond that you shared. Just for a window into the supposed life of luxury. Tony turning from the bar with two drinks in hand was all the excuse you needed to walk away. Which was what you did. Literally. No polite excuse me or I have to go to speak to someone you just… left. Let them call you rude later. Start gossiping about you. What did it matter? Appearances only went so far and you had long since cared about what any of these people had to say about you. 

As you met back up with Tony and gratefully took your glass of wine from him, he sipped lightly at his own glass of bourbon and seemed to be watching you. Until, finally, “What did they say now?” Seeming to sense either your upset or just how drained you suddenly were. 

For him you managed a smile. “I was just thinking about how almost seven years ago those exact same people refused to believe when I said we’d come to an event together. And now… all they care about is how much money we’re blowing on a wedding.” The art gala at Basel. A lifetime ago. As most things felt these days, looking back. Some of those exact same people that night, in fact, who had laughed and waved you off, offered to stay with you when Tony left without you- and then tried to flirt with him… Now their tunes had changed but only so much. They were still interested in Tony. And his fortune. Maybe, more importantly, what he was doing with it. 

You were unwisely already half finished with your glass when Tony’s smile caught you off guard. When you looked up at him questioningly, he held out his opposite hand for you. “Can we dance?” 

That’s what you’d asked him that night. In front of all the disbelievers. You’d asked him to whisk you away, not only just to be rid of them but to prove to the world that- yes- Tony Stark loved you of all people. And you loved him. Now, so many years later, you were done doing any sort of proving. You didn’t need to. You didn’t want to. 

You recalled the way he looked at you that night, when you’d asked that. And you also remembered him immediately coming to your rescue when he answered- the same way you were now- “Absolutely.” 

The both of you finished your drinks. Too quick to be anything other than a mistake. But you weren’t really planning on staying long enough for it to matter. And you had him looking out for you anyway. And you for him. 

He escorted you by the hand out to the dance floor where couples were shuffling back and forth, watching people out of the corners of their eyes while a live band played softly. But when the two of you stepped there, when he put his hands at your waist and you laid your arms up along his shoulders and touched your hands along the sides of his neck, they were all watching you. But none of them mattered. All that mattered was the way Tony kept you in time with a gentle sway, the way he was looking at you. Deep, soft brown eyes and loving smile. The way he warmed beneath you. He deserved a little credit. Your hands crept up a little further, touching into the back of his hair as you let the thought out into existence, “The world seems to be waiting for us to throw some big gaudy wedding but… I think maybe you had the right idea all along.” It was dangerous to tell him he was right about anything but…

Ah, what did it matter. Tony knew (and definitely thought) he was right all the time anyway. 

His lips curved more into a quiet smirk but there was a sudden light in his eyes. “Had a change of heart? You wanna go sign some papers tomorrow?” 

“Not tomorrow but… I think I’ll keep putting off planning a wedding. And we’ll just keep being engaged.” Trying to be honest with yourself, and him. 

He gave a little shrug. “Not the worst thing in the world. Not my favorite idea, but. Not the worst.” 

Finally you looped one arm loosely around him, moving the other down to lay against his chest. Over his heart. “It’s not that I don’t want to.” 

“I never suspected that.” 

“It’s just… I don’t know when will be the right time. And… I want everyone to be there. That should be there.” Saying this hurt your heart a little. Thor was gone almost all the time. He’d be happy for the two of you, no doubt. But there was also Bruce. Nobody knew his whereabouts. Still. Was it right to just continue living life when he’d been gone for so long? Surely if he was alright he would have made contact by now, wouldn’t he have? Tony and he were so close… 

A sure blue formed over Tony then, and that smirk disappeared almost instantly. “Yeah.” Said out on a sigh. “Seems like we’re caught in the middle of conflicting ideologies here.” 

Making you realize you both said you may have wanted to just call it quits on a wedding and get married soon and that you wanted to delay until it felt right. Which one was it? It couldn’t be both. “...there’s no rush, right?” Asking him this almost guiltily. 

Something that seemed to sadden him. “Of course not. If I made you feel that way-” 

“You didn’t.” Assuring him of this quickly, not wanting him to take the blame for your messy feelings. 

He stopped moving in time with the music, moving his right hand from your hip so that he could take yours from his chest. Lifting, he pressed a kiss to the back, and then to the side, and then just over your knuckles. “I love you. If you wanted to sign papers tomorrow, we’d go. If you want to wait a few more years to make it official, we will.” Because Tony would do whatever you wanted. 

...but… 

“What do you want?” 

“I want…” He was almost quick into answering this but stopped himself. Seemed like he really wanted to consider this before whipping an answer out. “I want you to be happy.” 

This answer was was both satisfying and yet completely unsatisfying. “I want you to be happy, too.” 

“You being happy makes me happy.” 

This was getting absurd. And when both of you realized that, the smiles and laughter weren’t too far behind. In fact, as his eyes closed with that breathy bout of chuckles, he pressed the rumbling noise against the inside of your palm. It was too much to ask that you didn’t fall apart over him. “I love you, Tony.” 

“I love you.” His answer was immediate and genuine. “It’s a wonder anything gets done around here.” The two of you only just realizing, somehow, that you let a lot (if not all) of your actions be guided by the sense of how it would affect one another. How was it then that you didn’t just circle endlessly? 

“I think we’re doing alright.” 

He leaned in, lips just barely touching yours. “I think so, too.” 

                                                              ---

Another hour slipped by, most of which was filled with one-and-a-half more glasses of wine that was still a mistake and woozy, lovey dancing. You weren’t worried about your consumption of alcohol or what it would do to you because you had Tony with you. But because you had Tony with you, that hour later and some blood alcohol level higher than when you started was pointing you in the direction of home. You wanted to be free from this environment and just be home. With Tony. ...but that wine in your system was also pointing you towards the bathroom. Which would be wise before you got into a car and went back home. So you asked Tony to hold your clutch for you and wait somewhere fairly close. You wouldn’t take long. And you didn’t. ...at least you were sure you hadn’t. Just a quick pee, a reasonable amount of time washing your hands, drying them, getting the little lotions and the… whatever else the bathroom attendant was telling you. The words went in one ear and out the other- and she had a lot of them. It seemed like she just couldn’t stop talking. Politeness eventually ran out and you excused yourself from her presence. Lucky for you your dress had pockets and you were not a fool. Not tipping was one of the worst faux pas one could commit. Especially after running off. 

While you were sure you hadn’t been in there too long, Tony was nowhere to be seen when you emerged. Which was strange. And probably also a red flag. You thought he may have gone back to the bar for a quick drink before the two of you called Happy for an escort home- but he wasn’t there either. ...however. You did spot Ward Meachum there. Joy’s weird older brother. Fawning over two glasses of champagne. He had his back mostly turned. And another second later you wouldn’t have cared why or even paid any attention. Except seconds were running a little long for you- and you saw him half turned away- breaking a capsule open over one of the glasses. It was then your duty to keep an eye on him- to warn whatever poor girl he was about to hand that glass to- whomever he was planning on dragging out of here tonight. Surprise, surprise. That girl was apparently you. 

He headed one way, looking for you, and then turned in your direction, spotting you. For a moment you felt glued in place. He couldn’t be serious, right? Maybe you hadn’t seen that correctly… maybe your vision was just as impaired as your judgment. 

His smile was cold. And his guts were nervous. That told you about all you needed to know. He called your name a few feet before closing the deal. Sticking you in your spot. There against the wall where his figure stood over you. Blocking you from view. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

“I can’t imagine why.” You tried to be careful and calculating, but your brain was a little mushy. Ward had put something in a drink he seemed like he was about to hand off to you- ...no, that couldn’t be, right? He just… he wouldn’t do that- 

“I wanted to apologize for the way my sister acted earlier. She often feels like it’s her against the world, so I hope you didn’t take it too personally.” He was still smiling. You said nothing. Which made him uncomfortable. Maybe it was just the way you were looking at him. “Look- I uh… I know we haven’t spent much time around each other, but I think this whole Danny Rand business is a perfect time to get to know one another.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because you seem to be helping him. And I can’t imagine why that is.” He delivered this with such cruelty. Like he had something over you- or at least he soon would. 

“Maybe I believe him.” You tried to draw yourself up tall and strong, straightening out your spine, putting a hand on your hip. 

“So you admit it.” Like he’d caught you in a trap. 

You simply smiled back at him then, something serene. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” 

“Maybe not. But I also think you’re not a fool. So I’m having trouble figuring out how this crazy man off the street duped you. You’re at the top of your game. You’re smart. You’re cunning. Yet you’re wasting money on this sham?” It was obvious what he was doing. Trying to butter you up. 

Regardless of if everything he was saying was true- and it was. Which was exactly why you weren’t falling for this act. 

He took your silence as permission to keep prattling on. “Aren’t you busy? Don’t you have better things to be doing than entertaining psychosis?” 

“And what should I be doing with my time?” 

“Spending it with me-” He finally held out that glass. “-in a purely professional sense, of course. I’m not a fool to get in between you and Stark. But I think it’s long overdue that Stark Industries and Rand Enterprises had a sit down.” 

Ward Meachum was handing you a glass of overly expensive champagne that he’d drugged.

You knew this. You knew this- so you had every defense against it. There was no reason to be frightened of him. But you were. Because he was doing this. In the middle of a party. Where everyone and anyone could see him. He was doing it in a place where Tony was probably not very far away- and if he got caught, he was liable to be murdered. At the very least thrown in jail- 

But he was doing it anyway. Because he had every intention of you swallowing that down and then whisking you off somewhere to do god knew what with you. He felt safe. He thought he could get away with it.

...that thought alone was terrifying. 

It was why, when you stood there. Stuck. Staring at that glass, he smiled again, and tried to press it into your hand. “That’s a glass of 1914 Moët & Chandon. Figured I’d get something expensive to celebrate our potential partnership.”

With a steady hand you reached out to take that glass, and sensed the writhing satisfaction inside of him. Because he was getting away with this. That was at least until you looked away from that glass, finally, and up at him. “If you seriously drugged this champagne, Danny Rand coming back from the dead will be the least of your problems.” Promising him this. Warning him. 

His victory died. Immediately. Instead an icy fright wormed its way through his veins. He quickly took the glass back. “That’s- that’s quite an accusation. I know your other job probably has you paranoid but-” 

“What? You thought you’d just get away with that?” 

“Get away with what?” Tony had finally reappeared, just behind Ward- and of course, an out of breath Joy was in tow. Tony had probably come looking for you when he’d realized he was being bamboozled. Joy had taken him away so that Ward could come get you. 

And- with the safety of Tony there- his protection and… the frightening and mortifying thought that Ward Meachum had had plans to do something with you- you kind of… lost it a little. Your voice raised and your point was just short of frantic. “He just tried to give me drugged champagne.” 

Ward was suddenly sweating. “She’s- I think you need to take her home. She’s had one too many.” 

Tony’s focus was laser sharp. Dark and intense. And… terribly angry. “Give me the glass.” Demanding. Basically laying down the sudden law. Ward seemed like he might actually do it- as if Tony had powers of authority he just couldn’t deny- but Joy shifted around Tony and then bumped into Ward. Shoving him, more like it. He dropped the glass in an act that was entirely see-through. It shattered on the floor. He then held his hand up. “Ah- we’ll have to get someone to clean that up- come on, Joy…” Trying to make a hasty exit. 

The siblings were quick to leave, and Tony stepped forward with a mind to grab Ward. Probably by his collar. Or his throat. But you put your own hand around his arm to stop him. Causing a scene here was probably their plan-B. The problem was, Tony was overwhelmingly furious. And he now had nowhere to put it. “You saw him put something in your drink?” Not asking you because he doubted you. Asking you so that it would give him permission to go after them. And while you didn’t want him to do that- not here, anyway- you nodded. “At the bar. I know I’m a little drunk, but not that drunk. Joy carted you off- and I think they paid off my bathroom attendant, she wouldn’t let me leave.” All in an attempt to isolate you and give Ward enough time to do the deed. 

The serious look Tony wore was not one of your favorites. He then crouched down without another word, shifting his arm forward to reveal his watch from underneath his sleeve. He tapped on the front screen, activating it. It was similar to the one he’d given you- the one meant to be an interim defense mechanism while he was still working on your new Reactor. Two plates shifted out from the face. He then dipped his fingers in the liquid pooled on the floor and touched it against the glass sticking out of the left side. “FRIDAY, give me a full compound analysis.” 

“Yes, boss.” 

People were staring. Tony Stark was practically kneeling on the ballroom floor after Ward and Joy Meachum had run away. With some new shiny gadget activated. What was going on! How exciting! 

FRIDAY was quick. “Assuming you’re not looking for the beverage details, but I’ve found-” A small holographic chart beamed to life. “-muscarine and scopolamine. Enough to be fatal about three hours after consumption.” 

You didn’t know what those two compounds were. You didn’t really need to. The way Tony’s heart felt like it was twisting told you all you needed to know. It wasn’t that he intended to have you drink that glass and dump you in an alley to die. There were three whole hours before that. 

Hours he had probably been planning on filling with- 

“Let’s go.” You put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. The way he was looking at you… he wanted you to give him permission to go after Ward, still. In fact he needed it. But you couldn’t let him do that. “...please.” 

It took him a moment, and it was only through great strength that he ignored his instincts to throttle the man that had intended to drug you. But finally he stood. His hand found yours in a tight hold. “Why would he do that? And why here?” 

“They thought they could get away with it.” That was really the only answer you had. Why else would they? You had threatened their business and propped up a potential king to their throne. They wanted you gone. 

But so did everyone else. So they’d have to get in line. 

                                                              ---

The ride home had been quiet but intense. As soon as you’d gotten upstairs into the penthouse, the two of you had sat down on the foyer couch, still in your evening wear. You’d snuggled up to him, legs underneath you, head on his shoulder, and his arm had come around you all the way so that his fingers could sink into your hair and work against your scalp. Dvahli had not waited long to curl up across both your laps. Tony was the braver of the two of you- or perhaps he was just still unable to process that mountain of anger the right way. He had nowhere to put it. Didn’t know what to do with it. “Let’s put a story out to the press tomorrow.” -...and going with paparazzi buzz was certainly not his style. 

“They’d eat it up, for sure.” If the Starks accused the Meachums of trying to pump you full of date rape drugs, the entire world would be foaming at the mouth for more, more, more. What a sensational story. ...you didn’t want to deal with all that. You weren’t sure you could. Wouldn’t that paint you as an unwitting victim? Wouldn’t it make it seem like that was possible? It shouldn’t have been…  “But. They’re in the middle of a losing battle.” 

The breath out of him was tight. “You have eyes on Rand?” He wasn’t really asking if you’d been following up with what he was doing. He was asking if there’d been any sort of progress. Or if it had panned out the way you wanted it to. “No.” Being truthful. After you’d sent him on his way you’d tried not to involve yourself anymore. 

“Then how do you know that?” This cut you a little, the way he was just short of accusing you. The feeling must have slithered between you because he was quick to correct himself. “It’s not that I don’t believe you- if you say the guy is Danny Rand, then he is. But look at what they just tried to do to you. Think of what they’ll try to do to him.” 

He had an excellent point. As always. “You’re right. But. Danny’s not normal. He’s not going down without a fight.” 

You watched as Tony’s opposite hand waved around while he spoke. “Right. Because he’s been palling around with Lando in Cloud City. I remember.” Tony’s annoyance was now mixed with his overwhelming frustration. He was getting sassy. At you. So you sat away from him, unfortunately disturbing Dvahli who made a sad noise over it. But you looked at him. He looked at you. Dvahli looked between the both of you. Tony broke first with a frown. “I’m sorry. I just… what am I supposed to do?” 

Asking you this earnestly. He’d just been told that the love of his life had been on the end of a scheme meant to drug her and murder her. What was he supposed to do with everything he was feeling? 

Settling again, you turned, putting a hand on Dvahli to comfort her, and then did the same to Tony, holding his face in your other palm. His hand reached up, closing around your wrist. Holding tight to you. “Let’s… think about the alternatives.” 

“Let’s not.” 

“No, let’s do.” Trying to urge him. He quieted when he sensed your resolve. “Let’s pretend we live in a world where I would have been stupid enough to take even a sip of that champagne. I know Joy had been trying to pull you away, but I also know you were waiting for me. I never would have left with him. You would have stopped us. And you would have realized something was wrong with me. Taken me to the labs. Worked on a way to fix me. Like you always do.” 

In this fabricated world where Ward Meachum had gotten away with this, Tony still would have rescued you. You knew this. And you knew he knew it too. This wouldn’t have ended with your shame, your humiliation and degradation and then death. It just wouldn’t have. Because of him. 

...but apparently he wasn’t feeling confident enough to buy into this. “What if I hadn’t?” Fixating on the worst possible outcome. Probably because he couldn’t stop himself. “What if I hadn’t seen you coming out of the bathroom. Or him talking to you. Him taking you away. What then?” 

Then… Then Tony would have been responsible for your death. That’s how he felt. And that feeling was very heavy and terrible. 

“But more than that-” He continued, eyes watching yours. Pleading. “More than these hypotheticals- you want me to sit here when they planned to do that and not do anything about it?” 

You wanted to let them get away with it. That’s what he was implying. Second only to begging to understand why he couldn’t go after them over this. They hadn’t gotten away with it, but they’d still planned to do it. Didn’t that deserve some kind of action? 

Again when you didn’t answer, he spoke. “What if it were me?” 

This was a dirty play. Because only a few days ago you’d told him exactly what you would have done. According to you, you would have scorched the earth for him. And now you were denying him the chance to return that. That wasn’t very fair. And it was eating him up inside. He wanted something. 

...so… 

Leaning forward, you rested your forehead against his. “Please… let’s see how this Danny Rand stuff pans out.” He sucked in a breath to try and argue with you, but you put two fingers against his lips. “And if it doesn’t… you have my permission to drag Ward Meachum to a defunct SHIELD blacksite. And after that I don’t wanna know.” 

Tony was not a murderer. Not like that. But because it was you… who knew the lengths he would go to. This was all talk. So that made it okay. And he needed some feeling of release. This seemed to grant it to him. 

He eased, lips curving into a tired smile against your fingers. When you let your hand away from his face, “Thank you.” Then, now feeling better, he found the strength to joke. “Is it so much to ask that I be able to murder the people who try to hurt my wife?” 

“I guess not- but- I’m also not your wife.” 

“Not yet. It’s been proven that if I bug you enough about something, eventually you’ll give in.” His grin was sweet and handsome. “You’re already thinking about it.” Going to just sign papers, he meant.

Eloping. And he was right. Maybe he really did have it all figured out. “Yeah. Well. I still have some more thinking to do yet.” 

The way he was gazing at you made your heart melt. But it was his calm, quiet yet deep tone that had you yearning for him. “I’ve got time.” 

#Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Reader #INY Chapter Two Hundred #ah holy shit #what

[purecamp]

Now I Just Made It; I Found You At Last

not submitting this to AQ bc it’s not like.... relevant but anyway have this

Justin stared blankly at the screen in front of him, willing the little clock on the right hand corner to tick by just a little faster. The week had been long, gruelling - a new project was in the planning stages and as the most qualified architect for the job, Justin was under pressure to deliver above and beyond his usual high standard. Of course, it was enjoyable work, and it paid well, but he was finding himself feeling… well, stagnant. He needed a change of scenery, a breath of fresh air.

New York wasn’t a source of fresh air, per se. It was the world of business, the world he had thrown himself into with reckless abandon and found himself all the better for it. At the age of thirty eight, he found himself in a spacious apartment, not quite a penthouse but near enough, and enough spare expenses to dote on himself any luxuries he desired.

It was a busy, bustling, comfortable life. Affordable luxuries, a good job, a nice home.

Admittedly it wasn’t the life Justin had expected to find himself in. He had been sure, when he was young, that at this point in his life he would be married, perhaps with a few children. Luxuries meant little to him - he preferred simplicity and experiences over the expensive pressed suits and cufflinks that mattered so much to the people around him. In a way, he felt like a marionette playing a part made for someone else. He had tailored his life this way, and was finally starting to feel like he had outgrown the role.

A change was needed, but the clock wasn’t ticking fast enough.

“Mr Honard? Sir? Your coffee.”

The timid intern nudged the door open with her foot, smiling shyly as she placed the cup onto the desk. A few moments passed, and she didn’t leave.

“Miss Michaels, is there something I can do for you?” Justin asked her, as politely as he could manage. The girl couldn’t have been any older than eighteen, and he still remembered the days of feeling like a useless asset to a company much bigger than him. Nowadays he was the big fish, but still held as much respect as possible for the new small fry.

“Is it true that this next deal could be multi-million dollars? The girls were talking and I…” She paused. “I’d love to be that good some day.”

He smiled. “Thank you, Miss Michaels. It is true, yes. I guess this weekend won’t be a weekend for me, so I can try and get all this planning done in time for the meeting on Monday.” Justin sighed, steeling himself for the remaining five minutes of his day. “Still, work is work.”

Miss Michaels - Kameron, Justin believed her name was - excused herself, leaving him to shut down his laptop and sink into the leather chair, his eyes closing against his will. A multi-million dollar deal lay in front of him, and would only take a weekend of precise work to consolidate. Why, then, did he feel so stale? Where was the passion? Why did he feel like he was just running in circles, getting nowhere?

His yellow cab was already waiting after his swift exit from the office, still unsure as to whether he wanted to take up the generous offer that resided in his emails, waiting to be picked up. He would be a fool not to do it, and he knew it well. But that didn’t stop the nagging feeling that something in his life needed replacing, or uprooting. He was stuck.

It was, unsurprisingly enough, a slight deviation from his usual habits that led to the chain events that would end that stagnant, stuck-in-the-mud emptiness from Justin’s life once and for all.

His first action upon hearing the telltale ‘ding!’ of the lift to his apartment was to check his mailbox. Normally, he’d wait and open everything on Monday; nothing of any urgency arrived through the mail, and it was usually work-related documents that he would prefer to handle at work, or useless promotions and menus from establishments he would never eat from.

But the day had left him feeling sullen and somewhat bored, and he subconsciously begged for something that would let him escape for a while. Maybe a brochure for a slightly discounted holiday would be stuffed within the bank statements and tax filings, and he could use that as an excuse for some sort of holiday. Croatia had been nice, as had Egypt.

He pulled the various envelopes out and unlocked the apartment, throwing himself onto the sofa to sift through them all.

Bank statement, bank statement, last month’s tax returns, a notice from the last build, an automated thank you letter from two months ago… and a blue envelope.

Hmm. A small stamp decorated the corner of the envelope, depicting a classically beautiful Aphrodite, rising in her nude glory from the depths of the ocean. In the middle, in black ink, unfamiliar handwriting had scrawled Justin Honard.

Curious but not yet hopeful enough to pin any excitement onto the contents of the envelope, he pulled out the paper inside. It was neatly folded in half, concealing the contents, although judging by its size, it seemed unlikely that it was a letter. Perhaps an invitation to a party of some kind, or a charity gala.

It is with sheer delight that this happy couple announces their engagement!

A date was printed underneath, and the name of a hotel that Justin didn’t recognise. Glancing up, he didn’t recognise the names of the bride or groom either - only first names were provided, under the assumption that whoever was receiving the invitation clearly knew the couple well enough to be certain of whose wedding they were going to be attending.

Briefly, he wondered if the invitation had come to him by mistake. Yet clear as day, his name was written on the envelope, and…

Justin’s heart skipped a beat. Beneath the unfamiliar hotel, a much more familiar location was listed, somewhere he knew he would never be able to return to in good conscience.

The island.

He held his breath. There was no way he could return, not a chance in Hell. God, he hadn’t thought about her in so long…

Well, that was a lie. She crossed his mind at the most inane of times, not always, but often enough that her presence remained always in the back of his mind, reminding him of the things he’d done. Her laughter still echoed in his ears, her tears still haunted his dreams. But he hadn’t properly relived that one awful, fateful day in decades. How could he go back there - her home - knowing how much he had hurt her?

Then his eyes darted down to the very bottom of the invitation, and he stopped breathing altogether.

Please come. -Sharon

She… She…

It made no sense.

Sharon hated him. She had made that clear.

It had been twenty years…

But no. He knew that girl - that woman. Their love affair may have been brief, but Justin knew more about her than he knew about the world around him, the career he had chosen, the life he had perfected. He knew that she smelt like vanilla and sea-salt and makeup. He knew that she liked short skirts and tight pleather and simple cotton sheets against her skin. He knew that her heart and soul were comprised of hellish fire, and for better or for worse, she felt every emotion that struck her with the intensity of a thousand lovers.

Sharon wasn’t a fool, he knew that. She would never carelessly forgive him for ruining her.

It made no sense. This was some cruel joke, a trick played by a god to punish him for daring to try and break free from his own life’s restraints. And yet… why had he sprung to his feet? Why were the rest of letters discarded on the floor, with only this invitation clutched between his trembling fingers? Why was he already heading towards the bedroom to pack his things?

Damn it all. Sharon hadn’t been part of his life for two long decades and yet she was still able to undo him at his very core and unravel everything he had built without her. What did any of it mean, anyway? His illustrious career and expensive apartment in a city he didn’t truly love - why did any of that matter? He had been searching desperately for any kind of whim that would allow him to escape once and for all.

Love him or hate him, Sharon’s name was signed at the bottom of the invite, and it took Justin mere minutes to fill his suitcase with clothing. Simple clothing - the kind one would wear to fall in love on a magical Greek island, rather than seal business deals in the industrial side of New York City. Anything else could be found on the way. Time, all of a sudden, seemed to be of the essence. Twenty years melted into nothing.

He dashed out of the door in disarray, his suitcase packed, his top-three shirt buttons undone and his hair mussed from raking his hands through it. A last-minute flight was booked to Athens and Justin knew that from array of taxicabs he could see from his window that making his way to the airport would be no trouble at all.

And somehow, just like that, Sharon Needles turned his whole life upside down once again, a whole twenty years after she’d done it the first time.

-

“Are you fucking kidding! Is this a joke? Is this some cosmic fucking joke?”

The man a few feet away from Justin uttered his inner sentiments perfectly as he gazed after the small red dot on the horizon.

“Hello? Fucking ferry? Come back!”

He sighed. “I need to get to that fucking island. This is fucked.”

Justin nodded in agreement. “Yeah. And the next ferry-”

“Tuesday. Bad tide or some shit like that. I can’t wait that long!” The other man complained. “I have a wedding!”

Justin’s ears pricked. “Trixie and Brian?”

“You know them?”

“No.” Justin answered truthfully. “I have an invite… I know someone on the island.”

That was as much detail as he felt comfortable providing to this total stranger. After all, how would he even begin to explain his predicament? Hi, stranger. I emailed the multi-million dollar deal company with a short email explaining that I am unavailable, turned down the biggest job of my career for a chance that I might see a girl whose heart I broke twenty years ago, and ten hours later I’m stood on a dock at the edge of mainland Greece next to you, having missed the only ferry that will take me to her, and somehow a wedding is involved in this entire convoluted mess of a story.

The other man shrugged. “Same. I’m Willam.”

“Justin.”

Willam’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he recognised the name, but he shrugged a second time and held out his hand to shake it. Two heads were better than one, and somehow they needed to find a way across a large expanse of ocean to one of the most remote islands he had ever been to.

God, he’d missed that little pocket of paradise.

“Okay, maybe we can…” Willam trailed off. “Nope, I got nothing. Like, I have a boat, but it’s on the island and that’s not fucking useful right now. I need it here.”

“A boat? I have a boat!” A third voice chimed in. The owner of said voice smiled rakishly, gesturing to what looked like a barely seaworthy vessel bobbing in the waves a few feet away from them. Both Justin and Willam grimaced at it. “Uh-”

“Kidding!” He grinned, and pointed to a much larger boat, named The Carey. “She’s served me well, this one has. Anyway, you two gentlemen look like you need a ride and I’m nothing if not a generous Samaritan.”

Call him superstitious, it felt like a sign. The man introduced himself as Jaremi, and soon enough they were loading their things onto his boat, preparing to sail across to the island he’d missed so much. It had to be fate, for everything to align so perfectly. Someone up there was making sure, one way or another, that he would make it to this island. He was sure, tucked in his pocket, the little Aphrodite stamp was winking at him. This was her doing.

“So you’re Jaremi Carey? That guy who writes about weird places?” Willam interrogated him, the wind whipping his blonde hair into his face. Justin had taken a liking to Willam in the hour that he’d known him, and was warming to Jaremi too. He spoke little as the other two chatted away, keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon for any evidence that the island he had been dreaming of hadn’t been purely fictitious.

It seemed like one of those serendipitous moments in life where a common purpose united three total strangers. Jaremi, too, had an invitation to the wedding, and was equally as cagey about his association with the bride or groom. A more rational Justin would think on it, trying to conjure reasons for such a strange link between them, but he couldn’t.

Not once had he been able to think clearly when Sharon was around. She was all-consuming, her love encompassing him in ways he never knew love could. She had been self-professed innocent when he met her, but it was truly him who had been naive to what love could do to a man. In a matter of weeks he was completely changed, enthralled with this laughing goddess and her deep blue eyes. Her picture was as fresh in his mind as it had been twenty years ago.

Perhaps stupidly, he had dug out those photos of her and packed them into his suitcase, just to remind himself, selfishly, that she had loved him once. He didn’t deserve an ounce of her heart, not anymore, but it was a comfort to him knowing that, for a short time, she had loved him with everything she had. She didn’t need to know that his love for her had never died down, anyway. Justin was sure she was now perfectly happy with the man of her dreams.

But maybe…?

No. Justin stopped the fluttering hope in his chest as soon as it blossomed. She had asked him to come to the wedding, but that didn’t mean she had spent twenty years pining for his return. He was being ridiculous; a woman like Sharon would never allow herself to sink so low. She was strong, smart, resilient - and somebody as intoxicating as her would definitely have been treated right by now.

Whatever the situation, Justin told himself he didn’t care. He would get to see her again, and that was reward enough.

-

Oh my god, it was Sharon.

It wasn’t Sharon, but it might well have been. She was every bit Sharon, from head-to-toe she was his ex-lover, radiant and beautiful at no more than twenty years old. Standing before them, she regarded them with sparkling eyes and a nervous smile.

“Perhaps this young lady will be able to help us… Hello there! We three strangers have been invited to a wedding by Sharon, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about what’s going on, would you? I’m Jaremi.” He offered his hand for the young girl to shake, which she accepted.

When she spoke, her voice was breathless and yet - still so similar to hers. Sweeter, and higher, Justin noted. Sharon’s had more of a rasp to it, a husk that he had never been able to forget. Twenty years on, and the exact tone of her voice hadn’t escaped the depths of his memory.

“Yes, yes… Yes, we’re expecting you. You two must be Justin and Willam.”

Willam nodded and introduced himself, letting Justin go last. As each of them spoke, the young girl eyed them with a peculiar look. It seemed innocent and curious enough, but it was almost as if she was searching for something. After a few moments, she seemed to shake out of her trance and tucked a lock of her hair - golden blonde, like Sharon’s - behind her ear.

“Come with me, we have rooms for you. Well… one room. We’re a little tied up for space at the moment, with this wedding that’s happening.”

She led them, but she needn’t have bothered. Justin still remembered every step of the way, every winding path that would eventually lead to the taverna, every secret cave and cove perfect for a romantic evening or - as he tried not to dwell on for too long - a passionate embrace. It was only when they reached what used to be a rocky hill and an old wooden shack that things were new to him. The aforementioned hotel stood before them, shining white in the Greek sunshine.

She did it, Justin thought to himself, knowing he had no right to be proud and yet filled with pride all the same. She achieved her dream.

“We’ll, uh, have to go round the back of everything.” The girl told them, smiling sweetly as she took them into the lower courtyard. Her eyes seemed to be darting back and forth. “Everything’s a little hectic, so it’s easier that way.”

“Seems fair. Is Sharon around?” Justin spoke up.

God. Even saying her name was like a breath of fresh air away from his old life. It was as if at once, the stress and mundanity of his regular life dissipated. Her name on his lips had more power than he knew what to do with.

“Not at the moment, but I’m sure she will be.” She replied after a moment’s hesitation, steering them through alleys and shortcuts and clambering over boxes of hay and bottles and fresh produce. It seemed like a strange way to get to a hotel room, granted, but the three had decided unanimously not to argue with the girl. Clearly, she knew the hotel better than they did.

Maybe five or so minutes later, they arrived. All three began to settle their bags onto one of the three beds, as the girl dusted herself off to look a little more presentable for their official introduction. It had been a little bit of an arduous journey, given the morning heat, and she looked a little flustered as she smiled apologetically at them.

“Sorry if this seemed a little rushed… I’m Trixie.”

Ah. So this was the girl from the invite.

“You’re the girl getting married?”

Trixie’s face split into a beam, and she lifted her hand to reveal the silver ring on her finger. Justin’s vision tunnelled - that smile was one he had never been able to forget, practically pasted onto someone else’s face. He had known from the moment he saw her, but that smile seemed to confirm everything for him. Unknown feelings - not pleasant, but not unpleasant - bubbled in his stomach. She was talking, but Justin couldn’t understand a word of it. She… She…

“You’re Sharon’s daughter.”

Sharon had a daughter. Sharon, the love of his life, immortalised in his memory at the tender age of seventeen, had a daughter. This was undoubtedly her, stood before him. Proof that Sharon had managed to move on with her life after they had fallen apart. She had something truly marvellous to show for it.

Seemingly caught unawares, Trixie just nodded helplessly.

“I knew you looked familiar.” Justin found himself unable to stop, his mind now flooded with thoughts of her. “God, I bet she hasn’t aged a day.”

Seeing Trixie was jarring. He knew Sharon would be different now, especially given how much he had changed in their years apart, but meeting her daughter who was nothing if not the exact image of Sharon in her youth had fucked with his head. He somehow knew that Sharon would be even more beautiful than she had been before, a feat he had long thought impossible.

“I know she’s busy, but can I see her? I want to thank her for this invite-”

“No!” Trixie rushed out, her expression filling with fear. It was yet another look that Justin knew all too well; he had seen it on her mom, way back when her biggest worry was her own mother’s wrath. “I… shit. Mom didn’t send the invitations to you, I did. She doesn’t know you’re here.”

And just like that, Justin’s euphoria shattered.

“Listen.” She whispered, drawing closer. “She’s been so stressed constantly about my wedding, so I felt bad and invited you guys to cheer her up. She talks about her friends from the past all the time, I thought she’d like it.”

Friends. Friends didn’t even begin to cover what they had. Nor indeed what they had left behind. Justin was definitely something of an enemy, the way he’d broken her heart. He shouldn’t have come at all.

Trixie took a deep breath and continued. “Just… if she sees you, don’t tell her you’re here for my wedding. Make something up, a happy coincidence that you’re here. Please. She’ll freak out at having unexpected guests, I just know it, but once she gets past the stress she’ll be so happy.”

Justin sighed heavily. “I shouldn’t be here, I should go. Trixie, your mom hates me.”

Hate, too, felt like a massive understatement. He had been told in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought of his scumbag, lying self, and he had deserved every second of it. The pain it caused him bore no weight against everything that he had done to her, and he wondered if Trixie actually knew the truth about him. Surely, she wouldn’t be so kind if she knew how he had treated her mom.

“Maybe she did, twenty years ago.” Trixie countered, with that obstinate look he knew so well. “No one can hold a grudge, or any kind of feeling, for that long. You can’t just go! I want you at my wedding, all of you!”

Willam and Jaremi, slowly, began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Though his heart felt heavy, Justin cracked a smile as Trixie’s intent dawned on him. Whatever she was planning remained a mystery, but it was clear she had gleaned her persuasive skills from her mom.

Jaremi took his hat off and grinned. “You’re a firecracker, like your mom. He’ll stay, won’t you Justin?”

He sighed. “I suppose I have to. Seems like your mom’s taught you all her old tricks. There’s no way of getting out of this, is there?”

Trixie beamed, clearly relieved. “Nope! Remember what I said - lie, lie, and lie again. She can’t know I invited you, or that you’re here for the wedding. She’ll go insane.”

She paused. “And, uh, trust me when I say insane. She’s a little crazy right now, handling all this on her own.”

God, what a fucking superstar. She’s achieved so many great things.

“I need to get going…” Trixie murmured, her expression regretful. “Thank you so much for accepting those invites.”

Justin snorted, but there was no malice in it. It felt more like resignation - one way or another, he was going to have to stay here, all because Sharon’s daughter had convinced him. “It was always impossible to say no to your mother. Twenty years, and nothing’s changed.”

#i cant add a read more UGH #higa

[theartofdreaming1]

The Taste of Something Stolen, Part 1: Beginning

Pairing: Batcat

Rating: T

Summary: Some people steal kisses. Selina Kyle is a thief by profession, she doesn’t have time for this touchy-feely stuff - if anything, she kisses in order to steal. However, whenever Bruce Wayne gets involved, her current theft usually ends up being a little bit of both.

A short series of loosely connected one-shots :)

It was Friday noon and seventeen-year-old Selina Kyle was observing the coming and goings of the Diamond District, Gotham’s financial district, her green eyes scanning the crowd for a target. So what if she was swiping some business shark’s wallets? They had their more than lucrative jobs to go to every day of their mundane lives - Selina, on the other hand, was going to be put out on the streets as soon as she was turning eighteen (not that the orphanage was a place she was gonna miss, but career opportunities were few and far between for an orphaned troublemaker from the East End - she was just making sure she had a financial cushion to fall back on when ‘Day X’ arrived.)

She had worked out a true and tested procedural method: with her backpack half open, she’d “accidentally” bump into her target (normally some boring middle-aged white man, as most of these suits were), the contents of her backpack would be sent flying across the ground, causing enough of a distraction for Selina to pick the (by now full on swearing) man’s pocket - by the time her target had finished cursing her out, Selina had safely stowed away Angry White Man’s money in her own pocket.

It wasn’t exactly the most fun method, but the satisfaction of a job well done as well as the fruits of her labor made it worth it.

This had been going on quite successfully for a couple of weeks now; so successful in fact, that Selina was getting a little bored if she was being honest with herself. Which is why Selina had decided to switch it up a little today.

Her newest mark was just now exiting Wayne Enterprises, wearing a simple, but very expensive-looking black coat and a brooding expression on his face. He appeared to be around Selina’s age and was already parading around the biggest companies in Gotham (the Rolex on his arm made it more than clear that he was not just some low-paid intern at WE) - the stark contrast between her own situation and Mr. Silver Spoon just affirmed Selina in her choice of a target: In a way, she was just leveling the playing field, if you really thought about it… She was simply… redistributing all that wealth a little among their age group...

As an added bonus, he was actually pretty handsome, something that would make the execution of her exit strategy, should she have to fall back on it, a little more bearable...

After making sure that everything was ready for her little maneuver, Selina shouldered her backpack determinedly and headed for the rich kid; apparently deep in thought, he didn’t seem aware of Selina gravitating closer and closer to him until - WHACK - they collided. Slightly stumbling backwards due to the force of their impact, Selina felt a strong, protective hand gripping her elbow - rich boy was actually making sure she wouldn’t fall (a nice, if superfluous gesture, Selina registered.) The stacks of loose papers and pens Selina had stuffed into her backpack practically exploded all over the ground. Rich boy took a closer look at her although not to see who he was going to yell at, as Selina expected him to, but to determine if she was okay. She must have looked alright to him, as he quickly withdrew his hand from her elbow, shot her a apologetic look and then went on to kneel down to gather her belongings...

Selina quickly dropped to her knees as well, grabbing for the useless notes and pencils scattered everywhere, making sure to keep up appearances.

Rich boy handed her a stack of papers, an apologetic look on his face.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going - did you just steal my wallet right now?”

The befuddled look on his face would have been amusing to Selina if this didn’t mean that she had been caught red-handed.

Before she could make a run for it, rich boy’s hand wrapped itself around her wrist - his grip this time a lot firmer than before.

“Give it back,” rich boy said - no, ordered; it wasn’t that Selina was surprised to find out that rich boy knew how to boss people around, but the authoritative tone in his voice, coupled with that steely look in his gray-blue eyes… it was a little unsettling.

But not enough to have Selina lose her composure; with a nonchalant shrug, she handed over rich boy’s wallet - it was then that she noticed the letters B and W that were engraved in the fine leather and something heavy settled in her chest.

And yet, that still didn’t keep her from getting her claws out instead of keeping her mouth shut:

“It’s not like you can’t afford it.”

Rich boy countered her provocative glare with an intensity she hadn’t been prepared for - it started off as a stern warning, but then turned into something more calculating, scrutinizing; she could feel his blue eyes scan every inch of her, taking note of her threadbare jacket and scuffed shoes.

As suddenly as it had come about, their staring contest ended.

“You’re right,” rich boy agreed calmly, opening his wallet to take out the bills inside - from what Selina could see, she would have assumed them to amount to about $500.

“I’d rather keep my wallet though - it’s a birthday gift,” rich boy told Selina sedately before holding the cash out, for her to take.

Selina just gave him a bewildered look. He was certainly the weirdest person she’d ever met. And his offer may be tempting, but she still had her pride:

“I don’t accept handouts,” she said simply, crossing her arms demonstratively.

Now it was rich boy’s turn to be perplexed.

“You would have just snagged it if I hadn’t noticed in time - but when I give it to you freely, you won’t take it?”

“I’m not just some charity case you can throw your money at, just so that you can feel like the great benefactor,” Selina replied disdainfully, “I’m not interested in money I haven’t earned.”

Rich boy seemed to consider her response earnestly. After a short moment of contemplation, he finally put his money back into his wallet and slipped it back into his coat pocket.

“Fair enough.”

Selina arched an eyebrow. She really couldn’t figure this guy out.

He gave her a shrug, “Well, don’t let me keep you from work.”

His sorry attempt at humor couldn’t conceal the disapproval embedded in his words.

Selina knew that there was no reason at all why she should care about some entitled rich kid’s opinion of her, but something about this guy just rubbed her the wrong way:

“Listen, Mr. High-And-Mighty: what I do is not so different from what all of these -” she gestured at the financial sharks roaming the plaza - “are doing here; at least I steal from the ones that can afford it.”

Rich boy put up his hands in a defensive gesture.

“I didn’t mean to be condescending and I’m not denying that you have a point about unethical business practices being a profound issue, especially in this city…”

He paused for a moment, then, an amused expression made its way unto his face:

“I guess I just don’t know what you say to a pickpocket when they decide to get back to “work”; - Break a leg?”

Selina raised an eyebrow again.

“Does this look like a theater performance to you?”

Rich boy only shrugged, a hint of a smile on his lips, before giving it another try: “Good luck?”

Now Selina was truly offended.

“I don’t need luck; I’m very good at what I do.”

He stared at her, quirking an eyebrow.

“You just got caught in the act,“ he pointed out incredulously.

Selina shrugged it off: “An outlier; doesn’t count.”

This time, a full-on smile played on his lips, “Oh, that’s how it is?”

Selina couldn’t help the pouty tone seep into her voice as she defended herself:

“People don’t just offer to help someone that ran into them! Your stupid niceness ruined my plan.”

“What was I supposed to be doing?” rich boy asked, his tone of voice indicating that he was both amused and curious.

Selina couldn’t believe that anyone could be that clueless, but she still decided to spell it out for him: “Yell at me that I should look where I’m going - add in a couple of insults and you are golden.”

“Even if I was the one who didn’t pay attention?”

Selina rolled her eyes.

“Of course.”

“Huh. I’ll keep that in mind for future reference, so as not to ruin your plan the next time around.”

Selina cocked her head to the side, the ghost of a grin on her face, “You really think I’m bold enough to attempt stealing from you again?”

Rich boy shrugged slightly, “You strike me as a very dauntless person,” he said quite matter-of-factly.

Selina smirked, taking a deliberate step forward, invading his personal space, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Rich boy appeared to be taken aback by her action, but he didn’t move away.

“It’s just an observation,” he said with a shrug, his voice wavering just the tiniest bit; but Selina knew that she was getting under his skin.

She tapped her chin in pretend thoughtfulness, her eyes glinting playfully.

“Hmh, there is an error in your reasoning, though.”

Rich boy knitted his brows, “What erro-”

But before he could finish his question, Selina cut him off by drawing him in for a kiss. She must have startled him for good, because it took rich boy a few seconds until hes started to respond to her lips.

Before he got too comfortable, Selina broke off the kiss, a wicked grin now adorning her face.

“You assumed I’d use the same trick twice.”

“Wha-”

His eyes flew to his coat pocket his hand fumbling for the fanciful engraved wallet. When rich boy finally managed to pry it out, a puzzled look appeared on his face.

“I still have my -”

When he looked up, Selina had already disappeared into the crowd.

“...wallet.”

His eyes scanned the plaza, searching for that mysterious, brazen girl who had just tried stealing from, and had ended up kissing him right here in public - but he couldn’t find her anywhere. With a curious feeling, he opened his wallet - to find that all the bills had been taken out.

Bruce couldn’t help the amused smile growing on his face, as he pocketed the wallet Alfred had given him for his eighteenth birthday.

“Hmh. Bold indeed.”

To be continued... here.

#batcat #batcat fanfiction #bruce wayne #selina kyle #my fics: the taste of something stolen #I write sometimes #I know I should be updating Partners like yesterday #but this was sitting in my drafts already 90 percent done #and I wanted to post some of my writing around the holidays

[loudlytransparenttrash]

What's your thoughts on Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez? Personally I thought she lost any form of credibility when she compared Ben Shapiro's request for debate to catcalling, after shaming Joe Crowley for not wanting to debate her.

Right? She showed up at Crowley’s office with so much bravado, trying to humiliate him into debating her on the spot, but when Ben Shapiro offers online to debate her for charity at a time and place of her choice, that was unsolicited catcalling and a man full of entitlement… Did you also see her try to be a good ally to Hamas, condemning Israel for their “massacres” and “the occupation of Palestine”? When she was asked to clarify what she meant, she completely fell apart, retreated from her statements and admitted she doesn’t really know what she’s talking about. How can someone know so little about a topic yet be so passionate about it? She’s also called for the abolishment of ICE, prompting many other Democrats to campaign on ridding the country of immigration law enforcement. But still, none of this compares to her socialist agenda.

In her interview with Trevor Noah, the very anti-Trump talkshow host, she was asked to explain how the United States would pay for all of the entitlements she has campaigned on including fully taxpayer-funded Medicare, college tuition and housing. No different to any other socialist, she replied it’s possible “if the wealthy paid their fair share.” She went on to proudly state that if we raised the hell out of taxes on corporations and the ultra wealthy, over a ten year period the government could make two trillion dollars. Considering providing Medicare for all would cost the federal government 32 trillion dollars over the same length of time and free college tuition would cost 75 billion per year, her math doesn’t quite add up. That’s not even including her free housing, free childcare and an increase in entitlement programs she’s calling for. Her other bright idea to pay for socialism is to take money from the military, because “they don’t need it.”

This is the problem with socialism. It’s all whimsical, pie in the sky economics. They go on and on about the evil “1 percent” but even if we took 100 percent of the wealth from America’s richest people, we’d only be able to run a free-for-all socialist government for about four months. The combined wealth of all our multimillionaires and billionaires, everyone in Forbes Richest 400, we’d reap 2.68 trillion. That sounds like a lot, sure, but we already spend almost double that per year, without the endless welfare programs. That sum couldn’t even fund universal healthcare for a single year, let alone even scratch the surface of our 20 trillion national debt or the combined spending of every other socialist program. The question that no socialist can answer is what happens after we take the money from the rich? They all want to play Robin Hood and steal from the rich, but what then? What happens when that money quickly runs out?

Taking all the wealth from the rich is the exact same idea as simply printing out trillions of dollars more and handing it out to everyone. Their goal is to make everyone equally rich, but if everyone is rich then the value of money becomes worthless, making everyone equally poor. And if we take away all the money, who then will be our entrepreneurs, job creators and pioneers? People won’t work if there’s no incentive, if they’re not allowed to profit or excel individually. How do we make people work if they know they’ll still be paid and provided for regardless if they work or not? But that’s all part of the socialist ideology, they believe in a communal state, where everyone works for free, everyone shares everything, nothing is owned, it’s all for the good of mankind and equality.

That’s why she’s so popular with young liberals, they live and breathe for this utopia, their teachers have been indoctrinating them for the past twenty years, so of course they will flock to vote for a brown and female version of Bernie, but her ideas and her clear failure to sell them will never be able to convince the rest of America to get on board. And why would they? The great GDP numbers are just the latest positive example of what has been an objectively successful economy under Trump. Since taking office, the Dow has gone from 18,332 to 25,503. The Nasdaq has gained almost 3,000 points, and the S&P is up just shy of 800. Our national unemployment rate is at an 18-year low of 3.8 percent. Among black, Hispanic and Asian Americans, unemployment is at all-time low numbers. Trump has slashed red tape at a record rate, consumer confidence is through the roof and we have more available jobs than unemployed people.

She even fumbled with answers related to the low unemployment rate, stating it was so low “due to Americans working two or more jobs.” However the number of Americans working two or more jobs has been on the decline since the mid-90s and sits under 5 percent of all people employed today. Another common assertion is that people are working “60, 70, 80 hours a week to feed their families.” In fact, we’re working less today than ever. The average number of hours worked is about 34.5 hours. Liberals always use tiny percentages to justify their policies: 1 percent of abortions are due to rape or incest so we must make abortion legal for all. Less than 1 percent of people are transgender, so we must make it a law to force people to pretend men are women and women are men. Just because 4 percent of people work two jobs with long hours, it doesn’t mean we should all welcome Marxism and socialism into America.  

She certainly has a strong niche of support on the far-left, but the question is could she sustain or even continue her rise in the face of our current booming economy? Trump’s best polling numbers are in relation to his handling of the economy and his crackdown on illegal immigration, two things Ocasio-Cortez wants to throw away and replace with something of the complete opposite. Not so long ago praising socialism and urging the government to pay for our every want and control our every move was considered politically career-ending. When Trump came onto the political scene, many assumed the same thing for him, so who knows? But similar to the fork in the road the Republicans faced in 2016, the Democrats now face it too, they have to determine if the future of the party will follow Ocasio-Cortez and Bernie into outright socialism. Considering though not even Obama could find himself endorsing her, probably because he knows the more the Democrat party embraces socialism, high taxes, open borders and the abolishment of law enforcement, the more elections they’ll lose, I’m not sure her future is as bright as many on the far-left hope :) xx

#myreplies

[lilbeankiddo]

Cricket legends who played in the Indian Premier League

“It’s only a few people, administrators and umpires, who had some doubt,” Murali recalls about the controversy over his bowling action. “That is their opinion,  but someone’s opinion can’t be the rule. Doubt is part of life, that’s fair enough. But there are two sides to every story. An Australian university proved me right, in the end.

“If you leave the decision to the umpire, though, I don’t think that is fair. Not on the umpire and defi nitely not on the player. How can you see from the eyes and say that this is not right? Two people might see it diff erently. When you’re bowling, your arms rotate quicker than anything and you can’t see properly. So use the technology, see if what you’re saying is right, and then come to a conclusion. And then you can tell the bowler to change their action. These rules have been brought in aft er my incident, so things are done in diff erent ways. Now a bowler has a fair chance.

Cricket boards get millions from TV rights, the ICC pay you a lot. And who wants to take that money? Not the cricketers. Everything is politicised. In the 1990s, nobody wants to come to develop the game, so honest people do the work. Aft er the World Cup win in 1996, money started coming in by 2000, and in ten years’ time, they spoil all the game.

“We have good youngsters, but confi dence levels are going down. We used to be very confi dent. The most important thing is to get them mentally right. They have all the shots, but they don’t know how to make fi ft y, hundred or even a partnership. Those are the things that are lacking in the national side.” Since retirement, Murali has gone into manufacturing – his father made biscuits, while he has gone into aluminium cans. He’s also heavily involved with former manager Kushil Gunasekera’s charity, Foundation of Goodness. “The foundation helps people in the poorer areas, those parts of Sri Lanka aff ected by the Civil War and the 2004 Tsunami. We also have built sports facilities and helped run sports tournaments. “I was fortunate to play cricket, to play for Sri Lanka. When I had my troubles in Australia in 1995, the Sri Lankan people stood by me, supported me during those diffi cult years, where I worked hard to prove myself innocent of the charges. The people of Sri Lanka helped me a great deal and I thought then that I would do something to help them, too.

“I was actually there when the tsunami hit southern Sri Lanka in 2004. I was visiting a village near the coast with my wife and mother-in-law, delivering books for school children. We saw the sea was high in the distance, but suddenly people were running towards us. They didn’t know anything about tsunami, so when we asked them what was happening, they just said ‘the sea has come to land’. We ran away quickly. If we’d been 20 minutes later, the tsunami would have got us.”

Bringing up bats in the IPL

The development of young Australian cricketers hasn’t been quarantined from a fast-changing world. The difference from the system in the 1950s is dramatic but in recent years it’s occurred at a much quicker pace. The last exceptional Australian side began to disband when Shane Warne and Glenn McGrath retired in 2007. The first World T20 event was held later that year and up until then the development system for young Australian cricketers was evolving gradually. With the widespread growth of T20 leagues, the players now have an extra choice when it comes to earning a living and this also means having to choose a development direction from a more cluttered path. A young player now comes through a system that includes many structured net sessions, hours facing bowling machines or a coach wielding a “whanger”. All these sessions are closely monitored by a coach who has various technology aids to emphasise his point.

The system I grew up in had few structured net sessions and many hours of playing matches, whether they were in the backyard against my brother or at one of the many venues where pick-up games were available. There were no bowling machines, unless you count the thousands of balls thrown by our father, Martin. There were no whangers – we didn’t throw balls to the dog, we hit them and Champ gleefully chased them, diligently returning the missile – saliva and all – to his master.

The hours of playing matches were crucial in the development process. Without knowing it at the time, all sorts of information was being embedded in my brain which stood me in good stead when I later faced first-class and international bowlers. The coaching was at the weekend and it was from an excellent tutor in Lynn Fuller. This experience has led me to the conclusion that it is best to have good coaching, or none at all. Not having formal coaching allows a young cricketer to spend hours honing his skills and better understanding his own game. The careers of great players such as Sir Donald Bradman, Bill O’Reilly and Doug Walters all began in the bush where they unearthed their own particular way of developing skills.

As the modern young cricketer progresses, he reaches the stage of playing various level under-age matches and attending an academy. My academy was the backyard and the local playing fields. Soon after playing in my only under-age competition – an under 14 state carnival – I entered the realm of senior cricket, competing against men. This was a critical part of my development and it undoubtedly hastened my cricket education. On leaving school, I graduated to A-grade cricket in Adelaide where I competed with and against Test and interstate cricketers.

When Dennis Lillee walked into the Kingston Hotel in October of 1995, it was as if Dennis Lillee himself had walked into the Kingston Hotel. It was, for a Canberra kid, flat-out unbelievable. Dennis Lillee! In the Kingo! Our local! Even 26 years old and six schooners deep, I was the fan kid in Almost Famous when he clocks David Bowie. Lillee! It’s Dennis Lillee! My mate Pagey didn’t care. He bounded straight over. “Oi! Dennis Lillee!” declared Pagey and began yapping away like they were pals. And DK laughed at some bit of nonsense, and at the front of the bloke, and soon enough I was over there, in the great man’s orbit, shaking hands, unable to speak.

And he smiled that lop-sided Dennis Lillee smile, the one you’d seen on the beer ads, and said, “How are ya, son?” And I smiled back like a shy kid with Santa, and said nothing lest it come out a squeak. Mike Veletta was there too, laughing along with Pagey’s babble. Lillee’s fellow man of the west was in town to captain-coach the ACT Comets, the local boys playing their first season in the domestic one-day comp, the Mercantile Mutual Cup. Veletta was 31 and had played Tests and ODIs for Australia, and would’ve been a big enough deal for we cricket-mad locals. Turn up with Dennis Lillee and he was Mick Jagger’s wingman. Safe to say we didn’t get a lot of cricket in Canberra. Not the top stuff, anyway. We  did get the Prime Minister’s XI; Robert Menzies’ muse brought back to life by Bob Hawke because he knew Australians as John Singleton knew Australians. Singo knew what sold Winfield Blues and Tooheys Draught, and Hawkey knew what sold Hawkey. And in those days, as Kerry Packer would have attested with a vengeance, cricket sold. And those PM’s XI fixtures, for cricketstarved Canberrans, were magnificent.

The first one was against the mighty West Indies side of 1984. Viv Richards, Clive Lloyd, big Joel Garner, and all the rest of those ridiculous humans with their long limbs and languid moves, and other-worldly skill – they were so unbelievably cool. Their visit energised the town; the match was sold out. Three thousand people snuck in under the fence. Manuka Oval heaved. It was ridiculous: January day; hotter than hell. Man, it was good. Desmond Haynes fielded just in front of us, on the fence backward of square. He was our guy, diving around, smiling his head off. And every time he came back from some bit of adventure we’d cheer, “Dessie! You beauty!” And he’d laugh and wave, into it. It was so cool.

Kids were mad for those West Indians. For the Aussie team, too. A mate of a mate, Coyley, played locally for Easts and wore his cricket kit to the game: woolly jumper, thick white socks, Greg Chappell hat. And he stood outside the Australian team's dressing shed signing autographs. Quizzical kids lined up. Years later, a younger mate dug out his toy bat with all the autographs, and there between “Michael Holding” and “Greg Ritchie” was “Peter Coyle”. Out in the middle, another relatively anonymous cricketer, a squat Tasmanian called David Boon, was whacking big Joel down the ground on the way to 134. And in a summer in which the Windies’ quicks were more four-pronged killer attack squad than men, we bayed for this boy Boonie, and for the PM’s boys, and for Hawkey who’d made it happen. The great man took a walk inside the perimeter, lapping it up, a rubbery figure come to life, shamelessly in love with himself.

And we loved him for it. And Hawkey knew it. ScoMo? There can be only one. In 1990 came England, and mates and I had a gig selling ice creams at the PM’s XI. We worked out you could wedge a six-pack of VB in amongst the dry ice, and we’d sit there, watching cricket, selling Cornettos and sucking on VB stubbies. Now and again you’d chant “Ice cream!” and down they’d come, the people. And I got half-pissed watching Allan Border belt the Poms around Manuka. At stumps, I was paid 150 bucks cash. Still the greatest job I’ve ever had. Another was operating Manuka’s Jack Fingleton scoreboard. They’d brought it up from the MCG, plank by plank, this great, hulking old banger, heritage-listed. And mates and I would sit inside it, shirtless, sweating up a treat, drinking tinnies, watching cricket.

One day saw a young Michael Bevan belt a ton against Wayne “Cracker” Holdsworth, bowling heat for NSW seconds. Cracker was short, skiddy and rapid. He was Malcolm Marshall without the guile. And without the Malcolm Marshall. But he bolted in and let rip, Cracker. And he was quick. At least he was this day, bouncing Bevan and the Canberra boys. In the same match, Marty Haywood who’d taken plenty of Cracker because, truth be told, Bevo didn’t much fancy it – was run out in the shadows of stumps as Bevo scurried back to the non-striker’s end. And I can still hear Haywood’s bull moose roar of “craaaaap!” reverberating around the empty concrete stands of Manuka Oval. And I thought, “My but I love this game.” And I love this ground. And now Manuka’s got a Test match. Little Canberra has become.

Canberra has four distinct seasons. Autumn is dead leaves. Spring is blossoms. Winter is colder than Krakow by night. And summer is just hot. Broken Hill hot. It’s a dry, “bush” heat. It’s African savannah. It’s scorched earth. It’s stinkin’. And you played cricket in it because that’s just what you did. And you watched cricket. And you lived and loved it.

We played on “synthetic” wickets which were concrete strips overlaid by “AstroTurf” of various plumage. They could be bouncy as bejeezus. A top-edged cut shot would soar into space. Not a lot of seam. But bounce, baby, bounce. The turf wickets could be a bit how-you-goin’, as they say. Shades of the old MCG: shooters, bounders, rip-snorters. Ordinary, lot of ’em. And a lot of ordinary bowlers got wickets. Outfield grass was generally long because it was cold at night, and wouldn’t grow back if you cut it. Thus, batters did their best.

Yet a steady drip of first-class cricketers has come out of the joint, punctuated by the odd Michael Bevan and Brad Haddin. Greg Rowell bowled accurate fast-meds for NSW, Queensland and Tasmania. Wayne Andrews went to WA and played 91 Sheffield Shield games. Mark Higgs bowled left-arm wristspin and gave it a whack for the Blues, once belting 181 not against Queensland. Nathan Lyon came from Young to pilot Manuka’s mowers before doing the same at Adelaide after Les Burdett.

Largely, though, the very good ones stayed, big fish in a small pond. Few reasons: there were plenty of players like them in Sydney grade cricket; there wasn’t money enough to uproot a family to chase a dream; in Canberra there were public service jobs forever that gave you time off to play. And it was fun to play for the ACT.

Brad Bretland kept wicket for the ACT. You haven’t seen a bloke with quicker hands, whipping bails off standing up to the quicks. He played indoor cricket for Australia. Unbelievable eye, reflexes. Peter Solway holds the record for most games and runs for the ACT, and most games and runs in the ACT comp. He played in the PM’s XI of ’93-’94 alongside young guns Hayden, Langer, Ponting. Fellow local legend Greg Irvine played in the PM’s XI two days before Christmas 1987. Took 5/42 swinging the ball both ways before going down swinging in a run chase against Richard Hadlee, bookended in the batting order by ME Waugh, DW Hookes and AR Border. Solway says there were a couple of nibbles from Sydney but things were progressing nicely in Canberra. The Country Championships had kicked off. There were regular tours and second XI fixtures. And in ’95 came the Mercantile Mutual comp. “And I had a decent job, I was married,” he says. “It crossed my mind to move to Sydney. But I suppose I didn’t want it bad enough.” Was he good enough? Solway reckons he’d have backed himself. Yet the NSW team was a tough nut to crack. “The era I came through of under-17s and under-19s – and I don’t know if it put me off – but the NSW team was Taylor, Waugh, Waugh, McNamara and a heap of guys.

“I don’t regret [staying]. I’m happy with how things have panned out. Was I good enough? I dunno. I probably would’ve backed myself. But until you do, you don’t know.” Mike Veletta believes Solway was “easily” first-class level. “He was one of those great blokes who was happy doing what he was doing. He worked for the government, he was content, his family was entrenched in the community. There’s no doubt – temperament, nous, technique – he would’ve thrived at first-class level.” After Solway, Irvine and company, however, came a generation of cricketers for whom there was a genuine pathway and opportunity to play up. They were my generation – let’s call them the under-19s of ’89-’90. These talented ones could get amongst it at the AIS or the academy in Adelaide. Michael Bevan was of this generation. You played against Bevo, he was left-arm quick. Going across you, bending it back in – he was a bit bloody good, Bevo. Scary, even. A singular fellow, but a good fellah. He could bat, sure – but there were batters better.

One played in his own team – Huntley Armstrong, a Greg Ritchie-shaped belter with Shane Warne’s mullet. In a semi-final at Rivett Oval, my Woden Valley under-16s played Huntley’s Weston Creek. Bevo wasn’t playing, there was a soccer tournament on. But they still had plenty. Bunch of blokes would play U19s for ACT. But Huntley was the wicket.

On 20-odd on a ridiculously, freezing cold March day (truly, it was maybe six degrees, sleeting, wind-chill factor hideous), Huntley smashed our Laxman-wristed leg-spinner Michael Streat one thousand yards into space. I waited for it to come down. And waited. No-one thought I’d catch it – me included. Damn thing soared towards me like an ice comet. But I pouched it, somehow, and punched the air, and we knocked off the Creek, the hot faves. And all the dads said over again, “catches win matches”. And Huntley’s mum declared, “It’s all Michael Bevan’s fault!”

Week later in the grand final against St Edmund’s, another top player from that class of ’89, Marty Haywood, was on maybe 42 when he smashed Streaty high, and long, and way out to cow corner. And there waited I – The Hero of Rivett – underneath it. Beautiful day. Saw it all the way. Grassed the bastard. And watched our man Marty go on to plunder 157 not out and win the game. And that, as the cricket gods would tell you, is cricket.

Haywood went to Campbelltown and onwards to Mosman, where he captained the club for 20-some years. He would play 13 matches for NSW when the Waugh twins were playing for Australia. That was his competition in the Blues’ middle order: the bloody Waughs. Today, a good one would’ve gone to Tassie or somewhere. Haywood stayed and notched his highest score, 97, at the Junction Oval. And you play golf with him today and there’s longing behind his eyes. Huntley went to Adelaide and the academy there, and stayed on playing grade cricket. He played a couple of one-dayers for South hero of mine, David Hookes. Michael Bevan went to Sydney, and fashioned a fairly decent career in the game. Today there are several ex-Canberrans playing first-class cricket, such as Will Sheridan (Victoria), Jason Behrendorff (WA), Jason Floros (Queensland), Nick Winter (SA) and Tom Rogers (Tasmania). It’s always been the same – and it’s the same for those from Townsville, Geraldton, Innamincka – you want to be taken seriously, you leave. And until the ACT gets a Sheffield Shield team, that’s how it will stay. And that’s why they want one.

Mike Veletta had played 12 years of first-class cricket when it was put to him that he might like to captain-coach the fledgling one-day team called the ACT Comets in the Mercantile Mutual Cup. There was a job in property with a reputable firm. There was a chance to learn about coaching. It ticked a few boxes. But jeez, it was different to Perth. “They flew my wife and I over to Canberra in July, and you can imagine the weather,” Veletta remembers. “It was horrible. Four days later we got on the flight home, my wife said, ‘Thanks for that – I don’t need to see any more.’

“A month later we were there.” The move was still a punt for Veletta. The Comets were still an idea, there wasn’t actual confirmation that they’d be a firstclass entity. Yet he rocked up for pre-season training and learned things were done a little differently in the Bush Capital.

“I was told the first pre-season game was always against Manly, and they’d always stay at the Steyne Hotel,” says Veletta. “It wasn’t going to be a typical cricket tour. So we played against Manly and spent a long weekend at the pub! It was pointless going to bed early. It was a great way to get to know your team-mates and a great introduction to ACT cricket.”

Veletta was allocated a local club, Weston Creek, and was expected to dominate. Yet conditions were so different to Perth that he battled. “The pitches were average, really. Average bowlers could get wickets. It took me a while to work it out.” But he grew to love it. He was captaining guys for whom the interstate one-day competition would be the highlight of their careers. He found it refreshing that people played for love alone, and were proud to represent a tight-knit community.

Yet after three seasons and 18 one-day matches, the Comets were axed. Solway blames politics. And Cricket Australia. And a few other things. “Cricket Australia [then the Australian Cricket Board] showed a lack of vision,” Solway says. “It was shortsighted. It was voted on by states thinking about what they had to lose rather than the good of Australian cricket. Denis Rogers from Tasmania was chairman of the board. He drove it. Tasmania and South Australia were thinking about what they had to lose.

“We had players coming to Canberra to get an opportunity. Instead of going to Tassie, they were coming here. We were always keen to play first-class cricket. And I reckon it scared people. “But more teams wouldn’t weaken the standard. Australia’s had the same six state teams forever. Cricket’s set in its ways. And look how we’re going.” The Comets had their supporters. Alan Crompton was one. Geoff Lawson was coach of NSW and saw the ACT as a good destination for kids from his region of Wagga Wagga and the Riverina.

“I asked people on the cricket board why the team was axed and their responses were very political,” says Veletta. “It didn’t make sense. In regional cricket, the ACT could’ve played a huge role. I always thought for all the country guys between Sydney and Melbourne, the one-day comp would’ve been a great stepping stone.” In terms of cricket competition, though, the territory was, and remains, a fairly poor cousin to the metropolitan centres. It’s seen as a nudge above the comps in Newcastle, Ballarat, Sunshine Coast. Sydney boys will tell you Futures League games against the ACT are like hard first-grade games. Good cricket – nothing you can’t cop.

Today the Comets – which played its last, first-class 50-over matches in February of 2000 – are the ACT/NSW Country Comets and play List A Futures League fixtures against state second XIs, academies, and various mobs of young turks. Locals lament that the Comets are a de facto NSW side. Trent Copeland recently played “back”. There was a Comets teams that played recently, didn’t have any ACT players in it. And this when Sydney grade cricket’s yearning for their people. One assumes Pat Howard’s KPIs are being ticked. “It disappoints me that the Futures comp is ACT and NSW combined,” says Veletta.

More on IPL can be found on https://iplnewslatest.blogspot.com/

#cricket #ipl #ipl 2019